


Meditations

by sidebyside_archivist



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-01
Updated: 2007-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25498582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidebyside_archivist/pseuds/sidebyside_archivist
Summary: Spock finds his meditations disturbed by a pair of tawny eyes. As usual.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Kudos: 5
Collections: Side By Side Issue 21





	Meditations

**Author's Note:**

> Note from LadyKardasi and Sahviere, the archivists: this story was originally archived at [Side by Side](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Side_by_Side_\(Star_Trek:_TOS_zine\)) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2020. We tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Side by Side’s collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sidebyside/profile).

He kneels on the cold stone quarried from the heart of Gol, the one real luxury he allowed himself from home~aside from the red drapes whose color rested more easily on his eyes than the cold yellow light under which he must live, to his eyes resembling a sun unnatural in its brightness.

He has learned to live with that light, but always returns to his sanctuary, where he can taste of home. For now, he pays no attention to any of it, kindling the fire and sprinkling thereon the incense which conjures images of scouring sand and searing heat. Expanding his lungs, he then takes the three deep triggering breaths, the first thing every Vulcan is taught from infancy, and reaches for the first shallow level of meditation.

In this state, he is hyperaware of his heart beating in his side, the scent of the soap he had used in one of the rare water showers he took this night which is overlaid with the strong incense in the belly of his Watcher. He feels the slight tension in his muscles, the blood coursing through his veins. He repeats the ritual phrases which begin to draw him inwards, free-falling to his own mind. His spine is erect, but not painfully so, the stone cold against his knees and legs. He breathes deeply, his gaze centering on the flame in the firepot, pulling him deeper, past the minor aches, the residue of the intense physical workout of the Vulcan martial arts he uses to stay fit. He reviews the day's events, along with the tasks performed as well as some not yet complete. Each one is examined, accepted, and set aside, each in turn. At the center of his being is the awareness of the All that is the closest concept modern Vulcan has of god or gods, so different from any humans have tried to convey to him with words. Vulcans need no words; they are born knowing they are part of the All, and they can connect with it any time they need to. Everything seeps through his being, and each one is regarded and filed neatly.

The flame in the firepot expands to fill his gaze before it, too, becomes of lesser importance. Awareness turns ever inward. Everything that he is, as it should be. Each thing set aside, to reach the second level of meditation.

The triumphs of the day are all examined and any possible pride in accomplishments is removed from the memories of them. Any possible regret is also removed for failures, small though they may be. The words overheard either complimenting or complaining, since humans have never known how acute is his hearing, Each one is examined, accepted as said, and set aside. Each event, minor and major, now neatly stowed in eidetic memory, to be utilized or ignored, depending on circumstance. Each dealing with the emotional beings he works among is examined, categorized, and accepted. Here, and here, he had dealt kindly or harshly with colleagues or junior officers, here he had needed more control than usual, here, he had shown absolute iron control. Each one accepted as is, once examined for flaws, all categorized and the memories stowed. Everything as it should be. Calm deepens, awareness of events outside his body and mind fade into background. The stars seem to move about him, but he is aware it is only a mind-construct, though he chooses to let it exist, as he knows he will need some anchor to pull him back from the deeper levels, once he reaches them.

He is in the third level of meditation. His awareness of the All expands, his awareness of his body working to repair minor damage, muscles pulled or bruises healing, each one directed consciously, as he has been taught from earliest days, there and there, where the antibiotic administered was unsettling to his gut in a minor fashion . He directs the organs to heal themselves, and they do it. It is not a healing trance, not so deep as that, no, but a minor thing, done peripherally, as he allows pain, pleasure, sorrow, joy, regret, pride, all to wash out of his system, all remainders of these emotions walled up so they cannot intrude on reason and logic. For a time he allows himself to feel the knowledge that he has succeeded in his aim to be as his training says he should, emotionless, logical, rational, and untouched by the passions that Vulcans call "animal" and disdain utterly, without allowing pride to cloud his success in the achievement.

Once he is certain he has reached the cold rationality of c'thia, he then prepares himself for the Fourth Level, saying again the triggering words, words which can only be expressed in Old High Vulcan, and which have been used by the telepaths of Vulcan since before Surak was dreamed of. These are the words which control their places in their world and keep other minds from intruding on theirs.

He is in the deepest levels now, and for a time, drifts, allowing his mind to become ordered, allowing fatigue poisons to leech from his body and brain, and insuring his controls will hold in his continued dealings with the humans among which he works and lives.

Now he allows himself to think of them, confident in his abilities to control his memories and allow no hint of emotion to cloud them. He is gratified that his controls have held in his dealings with them, though he is fonder of them than a proper Vulcan should be. He attempts to avoid showing it, and does not allow himself to think of the hurt they sometimes feel when their overtures of friendship are ignored. He is Vulcan, and they need to understand that. They do not, and sometimes he cannot help responding with compassion to their feelings, but he attempts to do so as little as possible. He cannot afford to lose any more of his control, he thinks.

Then the face of his mate swims into his consciousness, and suddenly the deepest levels, so easily achieved minutes ago, elude his grasp. He finds a warmth infusing him as tawny eyes and a lazy smile intrude on his ordered thoughts, and he realizes his control is not as complete as he had thought. But is it not his duty to respond to his human bondmate, who is in need of reassurance in ways Vulcans are not? Does not even his father respond to his human mother in a way which would be considered rankly emotional to a Vulcan, though it seems cold to humans?

In truth, he can hardly respond otherwise. He cannot risk seeming to reject this man, knowing the pain and hurt it would cause. He knows he has hurt the others, the doctor, the communications officer, the captain's yeoman, the engineer, when he has had to rebuff their attempts at friendly interaction. But he cannot do that to this one, the center of his universe.

His friend, his commanding officer, his bondmate, his lover--all of those things in one package, and more, the very other half of his soul--he cannot reject his overtures, and he cannot bear to cause him pain. He would give his very life and katra to protect the man who had burst asunder all his walls in an instant, illuminating the darkest corners of a very lonely soul, all without knowing it. And in that one instant, Spock had known he was utterly lost to Vulcan logic, only the facade remaining. Once more, the thoughts of the universal force that was James Kirk shattered his meditation, rendering all his walls and constructs as nothing.

At times he thinks perhaps he should go to Vulcan and try to reclaim that which he knows other Vulcans achieve with ease. Surely all the times he heard "so human," from his first independent breath when he was laid in Sarek's arms, through all the years of stinging taunts from his classmates, even the repetition by his grandmother, "Are thee Vulcan, or are thee human?" at his aborted kunat kalifee, all have been proven correct.

He has worked so hard all his life to become the Vulcan that none of them ever thought he could be, to watch it all whirl out of his grasp when a pair of laughing human eyes invaded his universe and tore down his walls as if they were paper.

He is powerless to stop it, and perhaps he does not wish to, and is that not a perversion in his world of Surak's Way? If it be so, then he will be a pervert, he thinks, until a day which might yet have to come in which he will have to try to reclaim his Vulcan soul. But that day is not yet. Now he will remove his mediation robe and go to the man on the other side of the corridor that connects their quarters. Clearly, his meditations are done for the night.

When he pads to the bunk, he stands in the half-light and looks at the golden body, nude under the covers, tousled hair against the pillow, and the long lashes closed in slumber. There is wonder in his heart, that such beauty could be for him. Spock removes his robe and in one smooth movement lifts the covers and slides into the bunk, cradling the muscular body, as its coolness snuggles against him, doing what humans call "spooning." Spock breathes in the scent of his mate, and feeling the fatigue through the bond, overlaid with contentment, allows his breathing to deepen in tandem with Kirk's.

He knows he could never know what tomorrow might bring, whether the routine of a quiet day or the excitement of a new alien species, or even one of their many enemies attempting to destroy them. Spock wouldn't have it any other way, no matter that T'Pau, Sarek, or even Surak might not approve. For now he lives content with knowing the approval of only this one man, to protect him and to serve and anticipate his needs and his wants. Jim stirs a little as he snuggles, sleepily kissing the arm that cradles him and murmuring, just before sleep again claims him, "You smell good, you. Sleep tight, love."

And they do.


End file.
